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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030359">Mistletoe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo'>standbygo</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Mistletoe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:15:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>820</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins small, almost reluctantly; a grudging obeisance to the pagan history that exists in the modern world. </p><p>There is mistletoe. We are under it. We must, therefore, kiss.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>300</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Mistletoe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My prompt for the 2020 Advent Collection Johnlock Style - the prompt is, unsurprisingly, 'Mistletoe'.</p><p>Update: Look at this beautiful artwork for this by khorazir! https://twitter.com/khorazir/status/1338977958535589888</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It begins small, almost reluctantly; a grudging obeisance to the pagan history that exists in the modern world.</p><p>There is mistletoe. We are under it. We must, therefore, kiss.</p><p>An embarrassed shrug. An eyeroll. Then one bends a little lower, one stretches up.</p><p>The first press of mouth against mouth is perfunctory, a fulfillment of duties dictated by the cluster of shining green leaves and white berries above them. But in the instant that the touch of lips is realized, something huge and monumental shifts between them. What began as an intention to peck, to briefly brush together and brush off, perhaps with a laugh and blush – hesitates, and then becomes something greater.</p><p>Surprise radiates through both bodies. For Sherlock, the shock spreads upwards to his mind, which immediately begins to categorize all the new sensations, only to rapidly be overcome, a rushing wave of unfamiliar emotion drowning rationality. For John, astonishment crackles directly through his nervous system, making each hair on his body stand on end and forcing his hands to flatten against Sherlock’s back and press him closer.</p><p>The kiss gains movement and momentum now. Brushing begats pressure begats exploration of tastes and textures. Sherlock curses his inexperience for the first time in his life, but pushes through the embarrassment to force himself to pay attention, to learn, to imitate, to build upon what he is being taught. John’s history of kissing is longer, of course, but the only thought ringing through his suddenly silent mind is how very, very, very different this kiss is from any other.</p><p>For a fraction of a second, they part, and eyes which had instinctively closed, open again. Their lips are only separated by the distance of a hair, a membrane, a picometre. But in that short distance, their eyes meet and spark with a million conversations in an instant. They register their surprise at this monumental paradigm shift, check that the other is all right with the change, then lift with joy. Sherlock’s eyes dance with the discovery of a puzzle solved, the best mystery on earth, the mystery of attraction, of unrequited and undefined longing. For John, his shoulders lift with the weight of years of fear and anger and self-loathing. Love for Sherlock finally reflected back creates love for himself, so badly needed, the need unknown until now.</p><p>They laugh, a tiny laugh, just a huff of sweet-smelling breath into each other’s mouths, then they chase their own breaking-out elation with their lips again. But this time, oh this time, John shyly introduces tongue – tongue! – into the equation, and Sherlock’s initial surprise is swallowed up with preoccupation with new data. Novel textures, a slight shift in temperature, a different kind of moisture. Curious how the application of tongue seems to create new dimensions of sensation spiraling up and down their bodies. Instinct now kicks in, pulling each other even closer than previously thought possible.</p><p>Their kiss takes on a new character. Not desperation, not the drive to thrust and have, not yet; that may come later. For now, it’s simpler. Shyness has dropped away, giving way to pure enjoyment, pure happiness only recently discovered. With the loss of hesitation comes a greater impetus to explore – hair, the shape of the body under shapeless clothing, the potential of skin beneath a silk shirt. Tiny vocalizations accompany this new boldness, sighs of a volume and pitch that neither knew they were capable of. John’s hands creep into Sherlock’s hair, curls twisting themselves around his fingers, their softness under the pads of his fingertips. Sherlock’s hands press harder against John’s back, the scratch of the wool of his jumper keeping him in the here and now. The shift of powerful muscles underneath said jumper is immediately hypnotizing and more addictive than any drug. One sighs, the other groans, and the vibration of breath and vocal cords pull them ever closer –</p><p>“Hey guys?”</p><p>John and Sherlock freeze. Their eyes open, lips still together, irises huge in an extremely close field of vision. Their mouths separate just enough to turn their heads towards the voice.</p><p>Lestrade is standing at the door, his coat on. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Detective Hopkins, and Mike Stanford are all clustered there with varying degrees of blushing grins on their faces.</p><p>“We’re just… ahm, going to head out now, yeah? Leave you two… leave you to it.”</p><p>Mrs. Hudson makes a shooing noise and pushes at Lestrade with a surprising strength, and the group pours raggedly out the door. Detective Hopkins whisper-hisses in the hallway, “That’s their first – you mean they weren’t already…?” and their friends murmur and giggle their way down the stairs and out the door.</p><p>John and Sherlock turn back to each other, waiting for a wave of embarrassment… which doesn’t come. John glances up at the mistletoe hanging above them, a smile curling across his face. Sherlock shrugs carelessly, with one shoulder, and bends down again.</p><p> </p><p>
  
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